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Centuries are pressed into the ground, mysteries sensed in the soundless circles we wander. A man climbed a tree and threw a colourless tasteless scentless thing down to me, and I saw it was blue-green, peach flavoured, and had the fragrance of pine needles. I called it “vision”, and in the haze, while it disappeared, my unsaid heart learned to wander past the weapons wielded by striding armies of men versed in grimness and plot. Where shall I find you again? In the arms of a goddess? Laughing at the perfect sky? A man entered a museum and heard the soft cries of a thousand excuses as they wandered through the rooms. Label me a polymath, a connoisseur of potatoes. Let’s take dear Mr Misguidedness out for coffee. |
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